


Ambiguity

by asterspire



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, artist!Mayuzumi, violinist!Akashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterspire/pseuds/asterspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Chihiro would not fall for some random freshman just because he happened to: (a) be really quite good at violin, (b) have this infuriatingly charming smile in his eyes, (c) have the air of some kind of celestial prince, (d)....</p>
<p>He has a feeling that this is not the last he will see of Akashi."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambiguity

 Disclaimer: Kuroko no Basuke does not belong to me.

* * *

 

Chihiro usually doesn’t judge people by appearances. Trying to discern someone’s personality or becoming interested merely because of how someone looks is mundane, after all.

That is, until he sees Akashi Seijuurou performing a violin solo, achingly lovely and exuding grace as notes spill from his fingers as smoothly as ink from a fountain pen. He looks like a tangible demigod clipped from the pages of a dusty history book. The performer’s expression is one of tragedy, warped with a confident slyness that one would only get from hours of practice.

Chihiro isn't sure when it happens during the ten minute performance, but his heart rate quickness, hammering in his chest. He makes a mental note to either do a checkup on his internal clockwork, or tell the persistent organ to get its priorities straight. Chihiro would not fall for some random freshman just because he happened to: (a) be really quite good at violin, (b) have this infuriatingly charming smile in his eyes, (c) have the air of some kind of celestial prince, (d)....  
  
He has a feeling that this is not the last he will see of Akashi.  

~  
 

 Take the courtyard; take the park; take anyplace other than the roof, because that’s the domain of Mayuzumi Chihiro. Some of his close friends (by some, meaning two) joke that it’s his natural habitat, soaking in the palette of the forestry and animals and sky. Chihiro doesn't disagree. More often than not he's curled up on the cement surface, leaning against the chain link fence and staring at the sky.

He sketches this and that, adding contours and hues and textures while furiously blowing away pencil shavings. Sometimes he'll see a rarity like an elusive bird and skip class just to scribble a furious draft. Art is about the only thing that stirs any sort of passion for him, and so he's always discreetly nurtured the discipline.

Dragging around sketchbooks as a child, he would sit quietly and surreptitiously observe, lines in human and nature brought to life by a persistent hand and a careful eye. He's always loved the perfectly flawed inconsistencies from place to place, person to person, day to day. Adding color to the graphite is not his favorite thing to do, but sometimes he does. He blends wax pencils for intriguing palettes, add shaded dynamics so dramatic that his hand is cramping by the end, and uncaps ink pen to let the contents idly bleed over the paper.  

Over time, he lets the sketchbooks, notebooks, memo pads, and restaurant napkins pile up in a neat corner of his shelf. When especially fond of one of his own works (narcissism in its purest form, Chihiro supposes), he jams it into the wall with a thumbnail. Might as well give something decoration, right?  

At this point, he lets the practice consume stagnant chunks of his bland life; if his grades are good and he doesn't miss too much class, what's the harm? Chihiro isn't sure why he's so interested in making beautiful things, considering how plain he is himself. "Opposites attract" is an strange and overused sentiment, but in this case he supposes it applies. At least to some degree, Chihiro accepts that he’s enamoured with art.    

 ~

He goes to Akashi's next concert solo. This time it's a light-hearted, charming etude that begins with energetic chords before ascending even further in tempo and intensity. Rosin dust gently dislodges from the frenetic bow, shimmering in the amber spotlight of the stage. Recurring rhythms are frequently cut off by zestful sparks of pizzicato, and phrases are often descended with lilting arpeggios of the plucking technique.

Chihiro is ultimately reminded of the vibrant palette of spring, of the flora and fauna that cross his daydreams and are scattered throughout his sketchbooks with a wistful hand. His head’s in such a fog that the performance is over before he realizes it, but his hands had already begun to clap like the perfectly polite, perfectly sane citizen he was. 

 The third concert is just as spellbinding as the first two. Akashi performs a morose melody with a skillful spectrum of dynamics and the perfectly coiffed touch of dramatism. The sobered audience falls silent, lips pressed together with pity for the nameless tragedy, for the faceless martyr.

Chihiro feels unsettled deep in his chest, and can sense the melancholic daze seeping into his bones. He will remember this song for a long time, he thinks. Chihiro hasn't paid it much attention before, but it seems like he’s the only audience member who consistently attends Akashi's performances. Yes, there are the classical buffs, who will listen to anything....and then there’s him. The other music doesn't particularly interest him; all he’s really watching is Akashi. If the meaningful glance the violinist gives him after the song is of any indication, it’s becoming obvious. Chihiro stops attending Akashi's concerts.

~

It's on a dusty Thursday afternoon when Chihiro catches a glimpse of Akashi during school hours. Chihiro had been simply loitering in the stairwell and trying to drown out the incessant discord, hoping to delay the inevitable doom of fifth period Calculus. He’d leaned against the wall while crossing his arms as if he has a better place to be. Maybe he did.

He quietly weighs just how offensive it would be to skip class today when he sees a flame of red in his peripheral vision. He quickly turns, stare filtering through the dense crowd to see if his imagination is tricking him. It isn't. Akashi Seijuurou, poised and purposeful, is surrounded by a circle of peers, conversing with them with an executive fluidity.

Chihiro is not ignorant of Akashi's popularity. Not only is he a class representative, but he also happens to be the Rakuzan student council president...as well as the valedictorian of his grade. It was no wonder that people flock to him as moths might gather around a lantern: one that is luminescent, unwavering, and entirely out of their reach. Chihiro ponders the cruelty of his analogy, before shrugging it off. He recognizes that to a lesser extreme he may be one of them too. Akashi continues to walk with a businesslike stride down the hall, blissfully unaware of Chihiro's thoughts. Chihiro never did end up going to Calculus after all.

~

Chihiro does an informal ink-blot test on himself sometimes, just to see what's unconsciously been on his mind. He cautiously holds a fountain pen over the surface of his latest sketchbook (a lovely leather-bound hardback) and allows it to drip for fifteen seconds. Capping the pen hastily, he blinks hard and takes a deep breath before glancing at the paper.

He grimaces once he comprehends his first thought: a music note. He squints at the paper again. It's still a music note, pitch black and mocking, as if it knew his dilemma despite being brought into existence moments ago.

This is not good. Unless... Chihiro sits up in his chair. To some degree, Mayuzumi Chihiro has grown enamoured with art- and he may have just found himself a muse.      

~

Chihiro somehow finds his ideas flowing better now, sparks lightning his imagination like flame to gunpowder when he thinks of the music Akashi had played. He tries to search for it online, perusing the depths of the Internet. He finds nothing.

 Instead, after asking around the fine arts department, he comes to the dry conclusion that the genius freshman had composed it himself. Despite the obvious drawback of only having heard it once, Chihiro begins to wonder exactly what aspect of the performance his fascination stems from. What fuels the graphite of his pencil to whirl around the page? Is it the thought-provoking nuances of the melodic tunes, or the composure and grace of the prodigy himself? Sometimes he allows his mind to wander to the quiet intensity of those oddly colored eyes, the confidence that exuded from every vibrant note, and domineering presence that he had seemed to exert over his audience. There is an palpable tension in the air as Chihiro ponders the violinist: an enigma.

~

Two weeks later, Chihiro gets a visitor to the rooftop. As per usual, Chihiro is leaning neatly against the rooftop chain-link fence, using his knees as a convenient prop device for his sketchbook. The wind is fickle with unease, and it's with an air of mild annoyance that Chihiro repeatedly smoothes down the edges of his page. He drops his pencil on in unusual display of clumsiness, and clicks his tongue at the hollow resonance from the cement.

He doesn't bother to look up when he hears the faintly audible creak of the door. Chihiro inwardly groans when he realizes he has company: most likely school faculty that would reprimand him for being out of class.

"I'm sorry for not being unsupervised during class hours," he begins in a dry tone. His excuse is void of a good amount of his usual sarcasm, out of formality.

Sometimes this happened,  and the worst punishment he got consisted of a few choice words and extra student duty hours. Chihiro is a relatively docile-looking kid who makes too little an impression to actually be labeled a repeat offender. He doesn't fear the repercussions, and it's getting chilly outside anyway, so it's with an air of nonchalance that he gathers his materials. However, before he can stand, he hears the visitor give an amused exhale, which would've passed for a chuckle had it been any less refined.

"You flatter me, Mayuzumi-senpai, but I'm hardly an administrator."

Chihiro's head snaps up in a gesture that he hopes isn't as alarmed as he feels. There, smiling back at him with practiced sweetness, is Akashi Seijuurou. In the natural light, features that had been muted by the amber spotlights become clear. His vibrant hair is troubled by the wind, too-long bangs barely reaching a pair of garnet eyes. His countenance is pleasantly neutral, and the mix of respect and analysis that he fixes Chihiro with makes him feel self-conscious. The visitor extends a hand warmly.

"Good afternoon, Mayuzumi-senpai."

(Chihiro struggles to keep a blank face, in pretending that he's never seen this person before; he's never thought about this person before- not at all, why do you ask?)

"What are doing here," Chihiro asks bluntly. He accepts the handshake, grateful that he'd mastered the art of having perpetually dry hands.

"On behalf of the student council, I'm here to ask you for a favor, Mayuzumi-senpai."

Chihiro blinks in suspicion, and Akashi smiles charmingly in reassurance. "You're aware of the upcoming Rakuzan fall festival, correct?"

Chihiro nods dumbly. (Who couldn't have, with all the gaudy posters lining the halls, and dark bags lining the eyes of literally every student in a club?)

"As you know, the theater department prepares a performance every year."

(When he'd heard 'favor', Chihiro had made a mental list of the things he was willing to do for Akashi Seijuurou. Acting was not one of them. In spite of this…) He found himself waving a hand for Akashi to continue.

"The art department paints the backdrops for these plays. However, they have a bit of a labor shortage at the moment,  so they've asked if you'd be willing to do it. Everyone in the student body knows you're the foremost most talented artist on campus, after all."

Chihiro doesn't overlook the obvious flattery, and he isn't exactly the type to go out of his way to do good deeds for others. Paint is one of his less-explored mediums, too, and it would require extensive time and effort to create such a large piece. However, he can already feel the gears in his head begin to shift at the notion of the plans to be drawn, colors to be mixed, story to be told...along with the peculiar, irrefutable fact that he somehow can not refuse Akashi Seijuurou.

"Fine," Chihiro gives in, attempting nonchalance. "I'll paint the backdrop."

Akashi's expression softens into one of genuine gratitude, until the executive neutrality is back and he responds, "Good. Thank you, Mayuzumi-senpai. The art department will provide for you the appropriate canvas, and I'll brief you on the details of the theme during our next meeting. Will tomorrow afternoon be convenient for you?"

Chihiro nods again, paying less attention to the words than he does to the melancholic lilting of Akashi's voice.

"Excellent. I look forward to seeing you then, Mayuzumi-senpai." With that, Akashi gives him a polite bow and turns on his heel, disappearing quietly into the hall as the door clicks shut behind him.

~

Akashi comes to the roof the next afternoon a scarce thirty seconds after the final bell is rung. He inclines his head respectfully to Chihiro as he greets him, settling down without even a rustle a few meters away. Chihiro eyes the way his legs are tucked under his knees, a quaint way of sitting for an equally orthodox boy.. Akashi tilts his head curiously at the scrutiny, and Chihiro quickly turns away as if that’ll diminish his guilt. Instead, he runs a hand over the enormous canvas the art department had so kindly deposited for him.

"So? What's the theme of the play? What do I need to paint?"

Akashi clears his throat. "The play is an Edo period piece. A young man is charmed by a kitsune, and completes a series of tasks to earn her affections. The art department has requested the backdrop to be a Shinto shrine in autumn, with the details left to your creative integrity. Is this acceptable?"

"When is the deadline," Chihiro asks.

"You have two weeks."

It was reasonable, Chihiro supposed. What with the amount of time he spent up here every day, a full-sized painting could probably be finished by then. Now, it was just the matter of starting his outline... Having been lost in his thoughts, Chihiro suddenly realizes that Akashi had unclasped his bookbag, withdrawing a composition notebook and laying it neatly across his lap.

"Akashi?"

The freshman glanced up curiously, before realization dawned in the garnet of his eyes. "Oh. I must've forgotten to tell you. The theater department asked me to compose the music for the play. I always seem to write better outside, so I thought it pragmatic to simply stay here. That is, unless, I would distract you from your work?" He shuffles as if to leave.

Chihiro swallows, before stiffly responding, "Go ahead. I don't mind."

The corners of Akashi's mouth curl up slightly in what Chihiro guesses to be amusement, before he bends dutifully over his work.

 The first hour between them is uneventful. Chihiro moves around the canvas, scribbling small notes and planning what base color to paint it. Akashi is buried in his composition, eyes narrowed in a state of perpetual focus.

Although, sometimes Chihiro catches his eyes wandering: from the looming corals and cyans in the sky, to the blinking lights from the cars on a distant highway, to the idle activities of students in the school courtyard. He thinks it strangely humbling, that even someone who is the very image of composure will allow themselves to daydream.

By the second hour, however, Chihiro is sick of the silence. By some insane coincidence, the person who had been his "muse" is in front of him, in a social setting where talking would probably be encouraged. Yet, he doesn't know a single thing more about Akashi Seijuurou than he had this morning.

Chihiro clears his throat, faking a cough in an attempt to ignore the concerned look Akashi is giving him. "You're staring at me, Mayuzumi-senpai."

"Am I?"

"Quite adamantly, in fact. Is something wrong?" Akashi’s tone remains light, as he loosely pens in notations with a mechanical pencil.

"I have a question for you, actually."

Akashi hums in interest.

"When you compose, where do you get your inspiration?"

Akashi pauses, shutting his notebook and idly tapping the end of his pencil against its marbled cover. "Would you believe me if I said other people?" His delivery attempts to stay casual, but Chihiro can feel the weight behind his words.

People? The unspoken question weighs heavily in the air.

"You see," Akashi says, raking his long bangs out of his eyes and taking a deep exhale, "when I meet someone I can't help but want to learn more about them."

(Yes, Chihiro mentally agrees, inborn sarcasm kicking in- that's normal.)

"...and then uncover their nuances, their conflicts, their motivation. Simply put, others fascinate me: every person is just writing their own histories, which are perhaps the greatest work-in-progresses they will ever contribute to."

(Okay, Chihiro muses, maybe a little less normal.)

Having been caught in a sort of reverie, Akashi's posture straightens and he smiles, shaking his head delicately. "Never mind me. What about you, Mayuzumi-senpai? I'm assuming that you draw your inspiration from nature?" He gestures loosely at the broad expanse of auburn sky above them, and the adjacent canopy of crisp, scarlet-dyed leaves. All the while, he fixates Chihiro with an analytical, unnerving stare.

Chihiro's head turns thirty degrees to the right reflexively,  because he really can't stand the way Akashi is looking at him: intensely enough that he has to remind himself that this is a conversation, not an interrogation. It doesn’t help that the hazy glow of the afternoon accentuates the jewel-like tint of Akashi’s curious eyes, and the apples of his high cheekbones are flushed slightly from the cold.

"Not quite," Chihiro replies quietly, hoping that the response wasn't as choked as it sounded. "Beautiful things. That's where I find interest."

"Ah. I see." Akashi smiles knowingly to himself as he begins his work again, and Chihiro takes the opportunity to duck away to an obscure corner of the canvas as he tries to conceal the blood rushing to his face. They don't speak for the rest of the evening.

 ~                          

The next day it rains. The only place spacious enough to accommodate Chihiro's project is the auditorium stage, so he retreats there for the afternoon. For some reason, Akashi is there too.

Chihiro has made sizable progress into the painting, having already applied the first layer and in the process of mixing tints and shades into the second. He hears Akashi somewhere behind him, occasionally humming vague phrases under his breath. Chihiro supposes that the exaggerated acoustics of the stage are what’s allowing him to hear the usually-quiet freshman. The pattering of the rain can’t even be heard from the thick insulation, and Chihiro feels a need to break the silence.

"Don't you usually need a piano or something when you're composing? So that you know you have the right note?"

Akashi closes his eyes, touching his slender fingertips to his neck in a display of feigned bashfulness. "I have perfect pitch."

"Touche."

After a few minutes, Akashi speaks up. "Mayuzumi-senpai."

"Yes?"

Suddenly, Akashi inches really quite offensively close to him; Chihiro can feel his breath on the nape of his neck when he mentions, "You missed a spot." His hand gently taps a portion of the painting at Chihiro's immediate right. Chihiro is very aware of their proximity, and his mind goes blank as he tries to think of a response.

"...Thank you?"

Akashi nods diplomatically and slinks away, curling up with his notebook with an air of self-satisfaction.

~

It's a week and a half after their first meeting when Chihiro finishes the painting. Rich harmonies of fiery reds and metallic golds dance across the page, in concordant agreement to make the scene as elegant as possible. Dense foliage covers the foreground, in myriad pinwheels of green applied with a skillful touch and critical eye. A heavy sense of mysticism overlays the piece, and Chihiro would admit that it isn't half bad. Clicking his tongue in satisfaction as he adds a few last touches, he leans idly against the chain-link fence and wipes the paint off his hands with a handkerchief.

Akashi's not here today. He has other business to do, Chihiro supposes, and it's eerily quiet as he waits for the finished product to dry. Out of habit, he pulls out his sketchbook and begins to draw. It takes little effort to put together a rough outline of a narcissus, the birth flower of December- that's the month Akashi was born, wasn't it? He sits quietly for half an hour while adding the shading and contour lines, before tearing it resolutely from the perforated line. He would slip it in Akashi's locker later.

He actually misses Akashi's presence. Funny, how someone who had begun as a muse-at-first-sight now exercises such an effect on him. His intelligent, candid personality coupled with the precision and practicality with which he completes his tasks is nothing short of admirable. At least, that's why his followers look up to him.

In Chihiro's case, he feels that there is always something unspoken in the sly curve of his smile, and a cryptic train of thought in the sophisticated confines of his mind. Chihiro wants to know more, and he tries his best to ignore the obvious fact that they no longer have any practical reason to see each other. Such convoluted thoughts are reverberating through his mind that his reaction is delayed when he hears the door open.

"Mayuzumi-senpai. I see you're still here." Akashi enters the threshold and kneels down a few meters away, fiddling with the latches on the hard case he was holding.

Chihiro raises an eyebrow, but chooses to remain silent.

"I finished composing the piece, but I'd like a second opinion on it. Will you listen for me?" Chihiro is stricken with the perfect tragedy of maintaining his composure while Akashi performs: an autumn solo on the evening of their final meeting. He nods.

Without turning around to see Chihiro’s affirmation, Akashi extracts a slender wooden bow from his case and runs the bleached horsehair over a small chunk of what looks like glazed amber. He then mounts the shoulder rest on his instrument, which is a warm shade of cherry wood in the strains of dying light. Akashi stands with elegant posture as he sets the bow over the strings and begins with a swift flex of his forearm.

It’s a familiar scene, and although Chihiro’s not sentimental, he feels something twist inside him at the sound of the first note. If he’s being honest, he's not paying as much attention to the music as he is to Akashi himself. Dramatic dynamic changes, smooth verses of melancholic long tones, and clipped, intensified passages with a wild array of notes drift by Chihiro as if in a dream: a dream that ends too soon for his liking.

Akashi exhales deeply as his bow rests gently in his firm grip. He cradles his violin under his elbow before neatly packing everything up in the hard black case. Chihiro watches.

It's almost conversational when Akashi asks, "Do you think it's okay?"

Chihiro's throat runs dry for a moment. He finds himself at a loss for words. “It’s...perfect.” (‘You’re perfect,’ he wants to say; he wants to shout, and he weakly reprimands himself for feeling too strongly for a certain Akashi Seijuurou.)

Akashi is finished packing up, and from his standing position he looks carefully, searchingly into Chihiro’s eyes, as if he’s waiting for him to elaborate.

Chihiro knows that if he’s going to say something, it has to be now.

Several long, painful moments pass before Chihiro breaks eye contact first and Akashi makes soundless footsteps to the door.

“Akashi.”

Said person’s fingertips had just begun to make contact with the doorknob when he pauses, and turns.

"You," Chihiro mutters with no shortage of hesitation, "you're going to the festival, aren't you?"

“Of course.”

"Then…would you go with me?"

Akashi blinks once, twice, in the closest display to surprise that Chihiro’s ever seen from him.

“Are you asking me out, Mayuzumi-senpai?” His tone is ringed with amusement, ever-present composure back once more.

Chihiro mentally prepares himself for the inevitable, crushing rejection before he even responds.

“Yes. Your answer?”

To his surprise, Akashi begins making his way over to him with unprecedented cautious strides, eyeing him with a genuine warmth.

“...It would be my pleasure, Mayuzumi-senpai.”

Chihiro's brain has a hard time proceeding the fortunate turn of events. His movements are sluggish when he gently catches Akashi on the wrist as he’s turning to leave.

"Please," he says quietly, "call me Chihiro."

Akashi chuckles, and hides his growing smile with his hand. "Then, I look forward to seeing you there, Chihiro-senpai."  
 

~  
 

They're taking a break on a concrete bench, and in the idleness of the moment Chihiro thinks that no amount of precaution could have prepared him for seeing Akashi in a yukata. He's as refined as ever, with thin white stripes running vertically down the raiment, and traditional sandals adding just a few inches to his height. Chihiro had arrived in a sky blue checkered yukata, and to his chagrin had just now realized he was wearing his school color.

Beside them is a painted water balloon hanging by a rubber band, and a startlingly red goldfish who had taken to fluttering idly near the bottom of his bag. Akashi is nursing a candy apple, and he doesn't know which sentiment to prioritize more: the fact that he hadn't had one since he was a child, or the fact that Chihiro had insisted on spending money for the richest person in the school.

Akashi's swings his legs in a moment of pleasant contemplation, and Chihiro sits exhausted beside him. He's drained from having been at the festival for the past two hours, including the half hour in which they watched the anticipated play- which was, without question, flawless.

Chihiro leans back on his elbows and watches Akashi for a moment, who gives him a meaningful look from beneath his lashes. "Seijuurou," he begins, which surprises them both. He hadn't expected it to sound so comfortable to his ears. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

Seijuurou tilts his head quizzically and reclines against the stone backing of the bench. "Of course. I got to spend time with you, Chihiro-senpai. I can see you've gone out of your way to keep me entertained and engaged this evening, so I thank you for that."

He inches closer to Chihiro, sighing contentedly and allowing his posture to waver ever so slightly. The closer proximity makes Chihiro feel pitifully out of his element, and he can feel color begin to creep onto his face.

Seijuurou seems to enjoy his misery, as he takes the opportunity to tease him. "Does my presence unnerve you, Chihiro-senpai? I can let you have your space." Seijuurou moves as if to move back before Chihiro hurriedly places a hand on his knee; the physical contact warrants a raised eyebrow from the former.

 "Just..."

From Chihiro’s periphery, Seijuurou gives him a sly smile and says nothing more.

After a few minutes, Seijuurou hums with realization. "Look," he murmurs against Chihiro's ear, subtle excitement in the cadence of his voice, "the fireworks are starting."

They sit perfectly docile for a few moments, enthralled by the intricate display of colored multi-bursts. Seijuurou's voice cuts through the dense atmosphere like a scalpel as he whispers surreptitiously to Chihiro.

 Looking back on that night, Chihiro would remember with absolute clarity how Seijuurou gently clasped his hand and pressed a fleeting, chaste kiss on his fingertips.

~  
 

 Mayuzumi Chihiro never receives phone calls. That's why, on a sleepy Saturday afternoon, it's with complete bewilderment that he unplugs his phone to find a total of four missed calls. All are from the same sender; all are spaced between exactly one hour intervals. If the pattern continues, he would receive another one right about...now. The realization doesn't stop him from nearly dropping the phone when it does begin vibrating with fresh urgency.

Chihiro steps outside the Rakuzan dorm room, and it's with a mix of muted curiosity and mild annoyance that he answers, "Hello?"

The voice on the other end sighs.

"Finally I've managed to reach you. Is this Mayuzumi Chihiro?" The deep voice on the other end of the line is stern, and for a moment Chihiro wonders if he's in trouble.

"...Yes."

"Good; it's nice to meet you. By the way, my name is Midorima Shintarou."

(Chihiro's throat runs dry. That Midorima Shintarou? The one that had, after being paired with Seijuurou, formed the piano and violin duo that had taken Japan by storm?)

Midorima must've noticed the prolonged silence. "Don't worry, I just wanted to confirm something with you."

Chihiro doesn’t stop to think before responding. "Is this about Sei- Akashi?" He can practically hear Midorima bristle over the line at the mention of his former partner's given name.

"Yes. He's told me that you two are now...an item. Don't misunderstand me when I say I don't exactly approve of this. Akashi is far from naive, but he can be too nice for his own good sometimes. I don't want someone to take advantage of him."

"What a good friend."

"Silence. My point is, you had better treat him well."

Chihiro stares hard at the expanse of wall before him. "Look, I understand that I don't know everything about him right now. Doing so, and proving that I'm reliable enough to be a confidant, is my top priority. Who knows how long that’ll take, but I’m patient enough to try. Fair enough?"

Midorima falls silent for a few moments, before scoffing in response. "For your sake as well, I hope you can follow through on that, Mayuzumi-san." He hangs up.

Chihiro sighs and slips his phone into his back pocket, before glancing up to see Seijuurou standing in front of him. He’s donned a winter trench coat, and is prepared to venture outside for the day.

“Did I interrupt something, Chihiro-senpai?”

Chihiro ruffles his hair. “Not a thing.”

He gestures that they should probably get going, and Seijuurou falls into step beside him as they head for the exit. Chihiro pauses to collect his thoughts for a moment before speaking again. “By the way, Seijuurou, I was wondering if I could ask you a few things while we’re on the train."

**  
** "I look forward to it."

**Author's Note:**

> The dynamic between sane Akashi and Mayuzumi is a bit different, and I hope I didn't butcher it too much. Also, this is my first work on this site... Maybe you'd leave some feedback?


End file.
